


Hurt

by snoewhite



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Not Beta Read, Self-Harm, partner is either Steve or Natasha its up to the reader to interpret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snoewhite/pseuds/snoewhite
Summary: My take on Bucky. Character study. His reality post CATWS. Mentions other character. Mentions self-harm and pain.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	Hurt

** Hurt **

**_“_ ** **_I hurt myself today,_ ** **_To see if I still feel, I focus on the pain, The only thing that's real” – Trent Reznor_ **

Bucky had read of sleep paralysis and lucid dreaming but sometimes his mind still played tricks and he couldn’t really tell what was real or was fantasy, especially when he was first waking. At night he lay next to the warm body, heating him from the outside in and drifted.

That warm body was his one softness he allowed, his one weakness that he coveted with his whole heart. His freedom was wrapped in that warm soul next to him. Warmth was dangerous, warmth was deceiving, warmth made you lethargic and lazy. Warmth was safety. If you believed you were safe then you let down your guard. The illusion of safety was the most dangerous thing of all.

Often he woke soaked with sweat, his heart pounding like the hounds of hell were on his heels. Those were the nights he dreamed he was back in that cold chamber.

While the Asset was in the metal and glass coffin, the white coats and handlers thought him unconscious. But, while he was in cryo-sleep, what they could not know, was his mind was still awake. He was aware, he could think, dream, and remember everything since his last visit to the chair. Often his last memories before being pushed under played over and over again like a song on repeat. They didn’t understand nor care that he was essentially the living dead.

He could still hear, feel, think and understand. Many times his mind would play out the last mission over and over obsessing about any small error or perceived mistake panicking that this time, THIS time, would be the last time. That this time, they had decided he was no longer of use and he would just be left a living corpse, unable to live, unable to die. Often he was a silent watcher as the spider webs lengthened on the crevices across the room. Some days he would hope the rats he saw running across the floor would chew through his cables and let him die. Let him have some peace. Other times he was afraid of the same thing.

This is one of the main reasons that he refused to be put to sleep. If he needed stitches, no anesthetic, if he was damaged he REFUSED anything that would make him unconscious. He had had enough of that to last twenty lifetimes, thank you very much. Pain proved he was alive. Pain proved he was real. Pain meant this was not a dream, simulation or cryo-hallucination. Pain meant reality.

Sometimes he craved it. Sometimes in the dead of night he would wake shaking. Those were the nights he would fight through the fog, clawing his way back to reality. Most of the time, reality meant self-inflicted pain. A small slice on the ribs, thigh, arm, just anywhere really that would bring that searing sweet, sweet relief, anything that would let him see the stark **BLOOD RED** of reality.

That first sliver of heat followed by the sharp sting was just that, a relief. A confirmation that yes he was real and alive. Yes, pain was his crutch, his anchor to reality. But what was a little pain between friends, right? Where the others saw it as something to avoid, he embraced it. Coddled it, coveted it like a visit from a long missed lover. He wasn’t a masochist. It didn’t give him sexual pleasure to give or receive pain. He was more like that dog of Pavlov’s he’d read about. It was a conditioned response.

He was conditioned to respond to pain. Waking from cryo, his body would thaw like a piece of steak removed from the freezer and left on the counter. But instead of relief, the thaw would **_HURT_**. But it was a good hurt, it meant he was useful and wanted. He was needed, required. It came to mean he was **_ALIVE_**.

Once he was pliant and move-able they would put him in the Chair. Again the Chair would shock him repeatedly until his brain was back online. What they didn’t know was that the shock was not necessary. He was aware, he could think, feel and move. He just was not thawed enough to do it. Basically they were cooking him from the inside out. And he felt it all. Every. Single. Millisecond.

Tony once called him murder-bot. He supposed he was to a degree. Once again, that was his mission, his training, his conditioning. But he knew he was so much more. Softness was not allowed. Softness meant not feeling and not feeling meant not real. Therefore pain meant reality. Pain was his reality. Pain was his friend. Pain kept all he held dear, safe and secure. If he was in pain he was alive. And if he was alive, woe be to anyone that tried to take what was his. He was pain and pain was him. One and the same. While he embraced the pain as his, he also dished it to keep what was his.

Yes, pain was his lifeline, his reality, his savior. So bring the pain, he wasn’t afraid. What’s a little pain between friends? Especially if it kept what and who was his, where they belonged. With him.

**Author's Note:**

> Please read and review. I really suck at this and it's the first thing I've written in about 3 years. I'm trying to kill my writers block. Be gentle and review it would mean so much. Thanks!


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